You Kiss Like Judas
by s.j. snodgrass
Summary: Clarice, after the events of Muskrat Farms, finds herself deserted by her agency. Angry and betrayed, Clarice Starling, former F.B.I, finds herself in a dangerous situation, once again playing cat & mouse with the only person who hasn't deserted her.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story will have multiple chapters, unfortunately, as I have a lot of it to tell. Also, it deals with the ending of the movie Hannibal, not the book. Though I will throw in some minor tidbits from the book. (Even if the book is superior) Anyway, please enjoy and review so you can tell me if I've done anything wrong. Oh, and Hannibal is not mine. It belongs to Thomas Harris, the wonderful genius.

Clarice Starling breathed a heavy sigh as she slammed the door to her mustang and leaned against the seat for a few moments, breathing in her car's smell. It had long lost its "new car smell". Instead it smelled like her. Her house, her perfume, a few bits of food she had eaten in it, and something else. Something not quite identifiable that is always prominent in older cars, a sort of blending of all the scents that had come and gone over the years. She could try and decipher each smell one by one, but she would never succeed.

However, she was not completely occupied by the smell of her car. It was only a simple human reaction to become preoccupied by something else when the mind is troubled. Sometimes our minds like to drift off to a less troubled place for a few moments, hovering in a temporary solitude until we are able to gather our thoughts and control our troubles. Clarice was now coming back to reality and putting her rather hectic thoughts back into a comprehensive order.

It had been two years since Hannibal Lecter's last nightmare. Two years since she had sat at that table and watched the atrocious and sadistic Paul Krendler dine on his own brain. Yet, even after this long timeframe, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the people she had called family for so long, still mistrusted her. Sure, they had returned her badge back to her. In a box. They had given her an apology after they had sought out the poison Krendler had slowly administered to her unsuspecting file. Though even as her higher ups discovered she was not guilty of the crimes she was accused of, there was still a deep underlying mistrust in all of their hearts. They looked down on her, like some strange insect they didn't know what they should do with. She was the woman who had seen Krendler horribly tortured, and they were afraid of her. Almost funny. Afraid of _her_?

Yes, she was now the black mark of the F.B.I. She had killed several people, had released a deadly criminal while she wasn't even an active agent. They told her she was lucky they hadn't put her away for her actions. She was lucky they had just stripped her of her badge. _Lucky, like they were doing her some great mercy._ What mercy could be seen in their actions? They had spared her the hazardous sun's rays in the hearing today? Yes, hearing. Even two years after that horrific event, she was forced to have a hearing, a hearing to decide her fate. They had decided then to not allow her to continue in the F.B.I. But then, what F.B.I work had she done in the last two years? Nothing but filing report after report on her terrible event.

And of her Lecter case? Nothing. She was not allowed to pursue her criminal ever again. After he had escaped two years ago she had requested to look for him, but was denied. She was told that they would pursue him, though they had turned up nothing, if they even did what they said they would.

So today in her hearing, if that was what you could call it, she was interrogated by several men, many of them who had been tight with Krendler. They hardly let her talk, and when she protested she was told they were just trying to help her. At the end she was told that she would never again see her badge, and would never again see her modified colt .45. It was enough to make her scream. They had even had her escorted to her car. Escorted like some sort of criminal. That way the public could see just how far she had fallen. It was humiliating and it infuriated her. She had not a comforting thought in her whole body.

………..Except one.

Although the event had been terribly traumatic, she could not help but find a perverse joy in the thought of Krendler getting what he deserved. Of course, whenever she thought of this, she had to quickly shake it away as she was unable to come to terms that those were actually her feelings.

In fact, she found herself shaking it off now as she started her car and drove off, back to her house and a shower to clear her head. Who was the true nightmare of her world now? The missing Dr. Hannibal Lecter, or the betrayal of her coworkers? 

Grumbling to herself, she slammed her car door as she exited it when she reached her house.

The air was cold and crisp as the day started to give way to evening. She breathed in the approaching smell of winter, and smiled. That was a comfort still.

_Fast, a memory of her and her father making Thanksgiving dinner together. Going outside and breathing in the cool air together. Her father's big coat wrapped around her. The smell of him enveloping her in her mind._

She fumbled with her keys a moment, dropping them in her daze. She cursed and picked them up, opening her door and stepping into the darkness of her home.

She turned on the light and walked to her room. On her way, in the living room was a big pile of papers on her coffee table. She snorted. She had a habit of letting things pile up after a while.

She decided it would be better to fix the problem now rather than later, so she sat down and sorted through newspapers, magazines, old files, and then she jumped.

At the bottom of her stack of papers was a solitary file of the good doctor himself. He was staring up at her from the black and white photo attached to the file, seemingly smirking at her. Angry and flustered she tossed it into the waste basket beside her. Then, thinking better of it, she took it out and carried it to her kitchen table, telling herself she had better bring it by the bureau. After all, they tended to get rather temperamental when you tampered with their information.

Looking about the room, she sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She decided on a shower. A shower to clear her head and make her forget the broken person she currently was.

Thus, Clarice Starling, former F.B.I, resigned herself to the fact that she was on her own now, no one to look after her.


	2. Letters

A few days later Clarice awoke to a rather obnoxious "thunk" on her door. She got up and went to her door, not caring about her current appearance in a worn t-shirt and shorts. Scratching her head, she opened the door and looked outside. When she couldn't see anyone outside, she looked down to see today's newspaper on her doorstep. The front page was covered with a headline about her being fired, followed by a detailed report on the subject. She scowled and discovered, upon closer inspections, that it was not today's newspaper but one from about three days ago. She slammed the door and left it out on the step.

This was getting old. Someone was always taunting her about her failures. Krendler, the Bureau, Dr. Lecter…

A little while later she found herself dressed and sitting at her kitchen table, coffee in her hands. She rubbed her temple and thought on her current situation. She had not as of yet found another job after being left out in the cold by the bureau.

That day she took her car out to her favorite park, sheltered by trees and jogged. Being outside and breathing in the fresh air had a strangely calming effect on her. It made her feel much better. While she ran she seemed to feel her troubles wash away. When she ran she could feel her own power the best and it made her feel like she could do anything. Yet true achievement sat out of reach. It taunted her, just out of reach.

She made it back to her house later that day and spent the better half of the afternoon cleaning her house and her mind. Her mind was by far the most cluttered.

When she felt truly accomplished, she made herself a dinner of leftover Chinese and an orange. An orange like her father used to feed her. She slowly had developed immunity to the pain of her failure and betrayal over these past few days.

She was getting ready to start on her dinner when an actual knock came to the door. She furrowed her brow and went to the door, wondering.

She opened the door to a young man in a UPS uniform. He smiled when she opened the door and looked down at his clipboard.

"Ms. Clarice Starling?" He asked, looking back up at her, his eyes quietly running a quick sweep over her body.

"Yes." She replied, the smallest hint of annoyance in her voice.

He handed the clipboard for her to sign and then handed her a small manila envelope with her name and a re-mailing address at the top. She gazed down at it absentmindedly, handing the man's clipboard back to him and stepped back inside with the envelope.

She walked into her living room and turned on a lamp before slitting the envelope with a letter opener that had been given to her by the late John Brigham. Normally, she would take a bit more caution in opening mail she was curious about, but now she seemed not to care anymore. She could see a new reckless streak developing in her.

She shook out the smaller envelope enclosed in the manila, and then stared as the crimson envelope fluttered to the ground. It landed face up, her name written across the envelope seemingly with great care in a familiar copperplate hand.

Her heart beat faster and her breath came quicker, almost in rasps. She felt a sudden chill, though she had all of the doors and windows shut. She knew this handwriting. She knew it almost too well. It had a horrific effect. It seemed dangerous, even as it lay there on the floor, its red color standing out against the white carpet.

She took a deep breath, shook her head, and picked it up. It felt hot in her hand, yet she knew it wasn't really hot. She picked the letter opener up and slowly cut open the envelope, dreading what could possibly be held in its small crimson packaging. Although, she couldn't deny that she felt a sort of thrill foreign to her.

With trembling hands, she removed the expensive looking paper from the envelope, discarding the envelope on the floor. Before she unfolded it, she thought about it. She thought about the odds of it being a fake. She thought that someone could just be messing with her. Paul Krendler would be a suspect if he were still alive. But as she looked down at the expensive paper, the familiar writing, the smell of familiar hand creams, she knew. She knew that no one else could duplicate this.

She looked back down at the manila envelope, half-heartedly searching for a return address. Of course there wasn't. He was far too clever for that. So, unfolding the paper in her hands, she began to read.

_Dear Clarice,_

_I couldn't help noticing as I looked at the recent news papers how far you have fallen in these past couple of years. What for, Clarice, what for? Is it because of me? Did I cause you to lose that job you held so highly in your heart? Or was it you, former special agent Clarice Starling, that caused your demise? After all, when they told you to stay away you pursued. You didn't want to follow the orders of those you once respected. This is like the shooting incident, isn't it, Clarice? Only this time you have fallen further._

_So what will you do now, Clarice? Will you resign yourself to the will of others? Will you submit, or fight? I can imagine what you are like at this time. You doubt yourself, don't you? You feel as though you have failed. But you also feel betrayed. You want revenge. Will you go after that revenge, relish in it, taste it? Or shall we take up our little game of Cat-and –Mouse again? Should I come to your rescue, or watch you fight? Tell me please Clarice. I'm curious to know your plan of action. _

_Sincerely,_

_Hannibal Lecter M.D._

_P.S. Do you still remember Mr. Krendler, Clarice? Do you wake up, terrified of what happened at our little dinner party? Or do you perhaps relish in it. Do you secretly feel glad about Mr. Krendler's demise? Did you enjoy watching you enemy fall? Tell me, tell me Clarice. Instead of the lambs, do you hear Mr. Krendler? Or perhaps you have yet to accept the fact that you enjoyed it. I'm very curious to know, Clarice._

Clarice put the letter aside for a moment and closed her eyes. She wondered how he could be so accurate. How he knew so much about her from nothing. She thought about his questions, his taunting. How did she feel now?

She picked up the envelope from the floor and was about to put the letter back inside when she noticed two more slips of paper inside of the envelope. She turned the envelope upside down and gently shook out the papers. One of them was a ticket to a theater one city away from her. The other was another small note. She read this note, also in the same writing.

_Clarice, would you care to see a performance this Friday? It may calm your nerves. Your ticket is enclosed. I'm sure it will prove to be quite entertaining. _

_And Clarice, be sure to dress for the occasion. _

_H. Lecter_

She stared at the paper for a few moments. It didn't make much sense to her. Why would he invite her to see some play? Would he dare to come out of hiding and into the public eye? What was he up to? She wondered if perhaps this was something planned, or just his whimsy acting up again. She couldn't be sure.

She looked at the ticket. "_The Phantom of The Opera"_. That caused her to raise her eyebrows. She knew Dr. Lecter's tastes, and this wasn't it. He usually preferred foreign operas, not a book-made-musical. If she didn't know it was him, she would definitely have thought this a ruse. This led her to wonder even more about what he was up to. What shit was he trying now? Once again, she couldn't understand what he was trying. Red flags and alarm bells ringing in her head.

There was also the matter of whether she should avoid the theater and turn in the letter and ticket to the Bureau, or go to the theater and say "Fuck The Bureau". After what they had done to her, it was not surprising that she could entertain thoughts like this she wouldn't dared have in the past. But thinking something and doing something are two very different things. So now, what to do? What to do?

Looking back down at the letter lying on her lap, she decided.

"Fuck the Bureau."


	3. Past the Point of No Return

That Friday, to her shock and amazement, Starling found herself dressing to go see _The Phantom Of The Opera_. A musical she had never imagined Dr. Lecter to be seen at, let alone herself.

And yet, as she zipped up her black, tea length dress, she knew she couldn't back out now. She knew that even if she might want to turn back, she found herself eerily pulled forward. She would never admit it to herself, but deep in the back of her mind she wanted to go. She was excited to see what lay in store for her. But again, she would never admit this to herself.

After quickly checking herself in the mirror (Starling never used a mirror) she threw her hair up in an easy, yet elegant, bun. Around her neck she hung a string of pearls, the earrings that matched already dangling from her ears. Now she felt as though she had done enough. Dressing up had never really been her cup of tea. Dr. Lecter was lucky enough to have gotten this much out of her in the primping department.

She reached behind her door and grabbed her purse. As she was about to sling it around her arm, she had an interesting thought. She stared down at her purse and noticed that it was a brown color, one that certainly clashed with her dress. On any other occasion, she wouldn't care about using her trusty hunky, mismatched purse. But tonight, as she thought about who would be there, she had a change of heart. After all, what was it Dr. Lecter had called her so many years before? A rube with a little taste. Hmm. Was she so driven by a memory and a man that she would change her appearance simply for his sake? It seemed so as she rummaged through her cluttered drawers in order to find a small black clutch that matched her dress.

After transferring the few things she would need for this evening into her clutch, she thought about her switch for a moment, wondering when exactly in time she had cared what a serial killer thought about her appearance. But before she could answer her own question, she dismissed it and didn't return to her thoughts.

She glanced at the clock, saw she had only thirty minutes to make a twenty five minute drive, and ran out the door, barely remembering to snatch her ticket off the table and lock her front door.

Twenty six minutes later she was parking in the large parking lot of a supermarket across the street from the theater. She complained about the theater's parking lot already being filled, but she knew it was no one's fault but her own for arriving so late.

So, grumbling and cursing herself, she arrived at the door to the theater. She handed her ticket to the man at the front, who, after looking her over skeptically, (possibly for being so late, or without an escort) waved her through.

Inside the lights were already dimming, and conversation died down to a hush across the room. Clarice fumbled along, searching for her seat. She found it in the fifth row from the front. Quite a fantastic seat, actually. She was not to close that she had to crane her neck to see the performance, and not to far away that she had to squint to see. She had to admit, other than his choice of tonight's entertainment, Dr. Lecter still retained his impeccable tastes.

As the performance started, she looked around the theater in an attempt to locate the doctor, but her attempts were in vain. He must be very well blended into the crowd, or perhaps he was occupying one of the boxes high above her. She thought the latter was more likely, seeing as it gave him a good view of her, but she could not see him. She didn't think he was looking at her at the moment, though, because she would have been able to feel his evil eye washing over her.

Her head snapped to the stage and away from her searching at the sound of the horrible screeching of Carlotta, the vain Prima Donna of the musical. Starling had read the book, had seen the new reproduction of the movie, yet she still winced at the sound of the woman's required terrible singing. She smiled secretly when she imagined the same reaction from Dr. Lecter, but she soon was directed to the beautiful singing of the actress playing the young Christine Daae, the Phantom Erik's obsession.

And so, in the dark of the theater, Clarice Starling watched the events of musical unfold. It almost scared her how eerily similar some of the events of the play sounded to her. She watched and felt a stab of pain as Christine Daae mourned for her father, knowing how the character must feel. The scene made her miss her father for a few beats. Then she wondered if that was how she seemed from an outside viewpoint. She wondered if Dr. Lecter thought of her as a young Christine. But if she was Christine, who was the obsessed Phantom that killed on a whim?

As she watched she slowly began to unravel more similarities. The Phantom was much older than Christine. Much like herself and Dr. Lecter. Christine was an orphan. So was Starling. Both Dr. Lecter and the Phantom coached the younger women, helping them along and push their limits. Starling didn't like this. She didn't like all the similarities she was finding. Now, she could deny a few of them as vehemently as she could, but when the songs ran through her head, she couldn't help but be convinced.

_Sing once again for me our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet. And though you turn from me, to glance behind the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind…._

Starling pushed herself back in her chair and tried to watch the musical as the people around her did, but she couldn't. Everything about the performance seemed strangely real to her. Was this why Dr. Lecter had her come? It certainly seemed like him. The power the Phantom had over Christine was one she had felt pull at herself many times before, down in the dungeon, Dr. Chilton secretly taping each session…

Christine was alone on the stage, singing her heart out about wanting her father back. Starling wished she could do that. She wished that it was her on stage, imploring her father to come home. Yet another secret hidden hint.

Starling surprised herself that she was able to sit through the entire thing. She had sat through the sword fights, the stage deaths, the romance between Raul and Christine, and the dark attraction of the Phantom and Christine. Yet the worst part was still to come. Slowly the curtain was rising for one of the last scenes, and the song she had been dreading.

_You have come here  
in pursuit of  
your deepest urge,  
in pursuit of  
that wish,  
which till now  
has been silent,  
silent . . ._

I have brought you,  
that our passions  
may fuse and merge -  
in your mind  
you've already  
succumbed to me  
dropped all defenses  
completely succumbed to me -  
now you are here with me:  
no second thoughts,  
you've decided,  
decided . . .

Starling glanced around the theater, searching desperately for the one who had brought _her_ here. It frightened her. These words, this song so coincided with her deepest secret thoughts that she could hardly take it. She was a strong individual. She hated to be demeaned by anyone, proven wrong by anyone. Even herself.

The Phantom's words rang so true, so dangerously true. She took a breath, once again tried to put herself in the place of another and enjoy the song, but it was too hard at this point. Too hard as the dark, deadly dance of Good and Evil took place on stage. The seduction of Danger and Innocence, something so near to her heart that she was blinded to the meaning hidden in the words. Blinded, or overlooked by choice?

_Past the point  
of no return -  
no backward glances:  
the games we've played  
till now are at  
an end . . .  
Past all thought  
of "if" or "when" -  
no use resisting:  
abandon thought,  
and let the dream  
descend . . ._

What raging fire  
shall flood the soul?  
What rich desire  
unlocks its door?  
What sweet seduction  
lies before  
us . . .?

Past the point  
of no return,  
the final threshold -  
what warm,  
unspoken secrets  
will we learn?  
Beyond the point  
of no return . . .

The Phantom's verse ran through her head over and over. Along with the words were memories of her chase games with Dr. Lecter. The dangers of even being here made known to her, yet she did not think of the dangers. The Phantom's questions in his song sounded for a moment as though they had come from Dr. Lecter's mouth itself.

She shook her head to clear it and prepared for Christine's reply.

_You have brought me  
to that moment  
where words run dry,  
to that moment  
where speech  
disappears  
into silence,  
silence . . ._

I have come here,  
hardly knowing  
the reason why . . .  
In my mind,  
I've already  
imagined our  
bodies entwining  
defenseless and silent -  
and now I am  
here with you:  
no second thoughts,

No second thoughts, that was right. So defenseless in the darkness of this space, unable to move, to fight. Starling didn't know the reason she had come. She had come only because…because…why? She couldn't remember now.

_I've decided,  
decided . . ._

Decided…Decided what? What secret door had she opened by coming here? What Pandora's box had she unknowingly unlocked upon herself?

_Past the point  
of no return -  
no going back now:  
our passion-play  
has now, at last,  
begun . . .  
Past all thought  
of right or wrong -  
one final question:  
how long should we  
two wait, before  
we're one . . .?_

When will the blood  
begin to race  
the sleeping bud  
burst into bloom?  
When will the flames,  
at last, consume  
us . . .?

The flames….the flames so dangerously close. Once again she turned her head to look for him, not finding him, and resigning herself to watch the stage again. Right and wrong…the lines were so horribly distorted now. She nearly found herself wincing when the Phantom and Christine snag together the final verse of that retched, frighteningly familiar song.

_Past the point  
of no return  
the final threshold -  
the bridge  
is crossed, so stand  
and watch it burn . . .  
We've passed the point  
of no return . . ._

Unconsciously Starling looked back, making sure the exit was still in place. Making sure her way back was not barred. And yet, even though the door was still open, she could not help but feel a much larger door slamming in the back of her mind. A door that could never be opened again. She had passed the point of no return.

And then, like that, the play was over. People around her stood up and clapped at the actors' performances as they took a bow. The spell over her broken, Starling stood and clapped with them, smiling, not quite sure why.

As the clapping thundered around her, Starling felt a cold shiver roll up her spine. She turned quickly and caught a familiar silhouette tipping his hat in her direction. Time and sound seemed to stop around her as she watched the figure turn and vanish from the box above her.

A split second for her mind to react, and she was pushing past the slow stream of people exiting the room. In her haste and disorientation she nearly shouted, "Out of the way, F.B.I!"

She was out of the door, running up the stairs to the boxes. She looked in them all, frantically searching. Searching…

In the last box, the one she should have found him in, was an empty chair, a half empty glass of a fine red wine, and a single rose on the red and gold satin chair.

She heaved a sigh of frustration before seizing the rose from the chair. Beneath it she found a single not, white as her pearls and written with blood red ink.

_Tsk, tsk. And you were so close, Clarice. Have we passed the point of no return?_

_H._


	4. Crimson Room

After the performance, a dark solitary figure makes his way to his car, a black Sedan, and heads to a house far from the city.

Once there, he turns off his car and changes the license plate in a very spacious garage. Then he enters the house, flipping on the light and bathing his face in light.

His face is tired, but amused. He has dark, sleek hair and dark eyes, cold and inhuman. He is short, but powerful. Beneath the White button up shirt and impeccable black jacket are arms that hold a wiry strength in them that was not to be tampered with lightly.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter enters his large kitchen, remarkably clean with a very faint, yet delicious smell of lavender. He removes his jacket and places it carefully on one of the chairs in his nearby dining room, the table a fine carved mahogany worthy of a king.

Back into the kitchen, he is searching for something to eat. But what to satisfy the pallet of a monster? After a bit of digging around in this kitchen he resurfaces with a small meal of rare steak and mushrooms, in need only of a little heating. He knows that he should have eaten out tonight and spared himself the task of eating leftovers, but what he had experienced tonight was worth it.

Tonight he was able to watch Clarice fight her inner demons and wage a war with her definitions of right and wrong. He was able to toy with her tonight without so much as lifting a finger to do so.

His tongue played on his fork for a few moments before he put away his plate. He was tired. All the traveling he had done lately was finally getting him. He had had no rest since renting this house as he had been busy contacting Ms. Starling. He believed he now deserved a good night's sleep now, especially since he wasn't planning on sending another letter tonight.

He cleaned up the little mess he'd made that night and went into his living room. Awaiting him there was a piano that had been rented along with the house. He sat down on the stool and let his fingers rest on the keys for a few moments, getting a feel for it and then he began to play. _The Goldberg Variations_, one of his favorites.

As he played his mind wandered into itself. He soon found himself inside his memories. His memory palace, actually. He wandered down a long hallway. Below him he walked on a long Persian rug that had once decorated his mother's room.

He passed along the cool statue of Venus, and into one of his favorite wings, one dedicated to Ex-Special Agent Clarice Starling. It was a beautiful wing, the finest lighting coming from its multiple windows and passages. It had many passages, making it a very complex wing, perhaps to match the woman it was dedicated to.

Back in the house his fingers on the piano began to drift from their assigned chords and spun off on their own to a new song, one born from his separate attention to his memories of a woman.

In his memory palace he entered one of the passages in Clarice's wing, and down a dark hall to a room of Crimson. The stone was dark, yet the floor and windows were draped with a soft crimson silk. This room was devoted to one memory he could feel at any time of his desire. Feel? Yes, he doesn't view memories the way we do. He feels them with his whole being. He is able to put himself into the memory and relive them when he chooses through the use of his elaborate memory palace.

In this room he was able to put himself in a moment form two years ago, where he had the woman of this wing pinned to a refrigerator, where she was seemingly defenseless. But rather than yielding to his will, she chose to fight like the warrior she was and handcuff him to her. Chain him to her. To escape he was forced to cut off his own hand. But why his and not hers? Not even now could he use his prosthetic hand as well as he would have liked, but it was worth it.

That night he had felt her lips against his, and he had felt her strong will and determination flowing through her and to him as if they had been one for only those few moments. And that was what the room he was in was dedicated to. It was dedicated to those few seconds.

Inside the crimson room was a single painting. He had chosen it because it suited the moment the room represented. It was a large painting of Judas, hanging with his bowels in from a dead tree. Oh, how it suited the room.

Again, back in the house his fingers, real and prosthetic, danced upon the keys to play his new song of Clarice. One that he will decide to play in the crimson room.

**A/N:** Sorry about the short chapter, folks. To make it up to you the next one will be longer.


End file.
